Poetry

Sitting at the Arbor in the Backyard

A frog surfaces in the blue fish tank burrowed in our yard,

I notice his presence, because now and then

He kicks the water at the edges.

The walls are too high for him, he barely keeps his nose above

Too high to be out of danger from the three black fishes

That keep tugging at his legs all the time

As if he is a piece of fantasy or tale from the folk-lore.

I wish he would do something and get out of reach,

The relentless fishes, relentless inquisitiveness.

The fishes know they can’t make him the prey,

As long as he is alive and kicking.

I am here in the yard to do some work,

Something like mending old toy my son brought from the attic

I don’t remember how to make the toy work, but

I remember playing with it when I was him,

But the frog is distracting,

I wonder irately why at all the frog fell into the tank,

Or is it here he was born or from here out of the frog-eggs he came,

The drifting tadpoles chiseled like sperm,

Now big enough to kick the balls out of fishes

In the blue tank meant for all species?

It never to me occurs where the frog would go,

If he manages to rip the water and fly.

After all I said to the black fishes in a friendly mode,

He was born here, swam here like you guys

And ate the same pink and blue food as you ate,

Kicking his webbed legs all the time in the world,

Alternate to skimming the water with swoop of fins.

 

                                                                                       ~ Saranyan Bv

                                                                                                Bangalore, India

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